


Late Nights

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Concatenation Timestamps [8]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Banter, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “007,” he smiles.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yes, Q?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I’m glad you’re back.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Nights

It’s a bloody relief not to be assigned an agent.

Q can work at will on his minions’ paperwork and guiding their engineering with corrections. He can use the workshop for as long as it pleases him to do so, squinting far into the night or first thing in the morning at whatever new device has caught his attention. He can take lunches now. He can leave early, though he rarely does but for those days that his phone buzzes with a picture of one of the cats and a beseechment to come home.

He can sleep at night without fear waking him every fifteen minutes, like clockwork. He can relax without the anxiety that any lack of absolute attention will lead to unimaginable catastrophe.

Q has never been happier to be slightly less important to the organization he loves.

But there’s been no text tonight, no blurred whiskered nose rubbing against the camera, no tantalizing glimpse of grey-haired chest. Q shoulders his laptop bag and switches off the lights behind him as he goes not towards the door, but deeper into MI6. Two agents are afield right now, with Thorne - 0013 - in Dubai and Sheffield - 009 - in Peru. Q Branch hums with computers and murmurs and quiet keyboard clicks as he passes by.

It’s eerie so late at night. His heels echo from the polished floors, with no bustle of voices or movement to muffle sound. After hours, when he’s not being summoned by M or brought into meetings, Q rarely leaves the workshop. Most of the rooms are dark, lit by the city lights beyond, the cafeteria populated by a few in search of caffeination and snacks for the night ahead. Q gives a wave to them and they tip nods to him in return.

A single light through a single window shines a rhombus on the tile as he approaches the offices, and Q smiles a little as he heads towards Bond’s designated room. Quieting his steps, he listens for a moment, brow pressed to the frosted glass. Warm as whiskey and just as heady, Bond’s voice warms Q’s pulse with tone alone, the words muted.

God, he loves him.

Q knocks once, and without waiting for response, he quietly cracks open the door. Bond’s shoes are off, socked feet crossed at the ankles on his desk. Q catches only a glimpse of them before James lowers his feet to the floor, regarding the Quartermaster with a smile in the corners of his eyes. Q lifts his fingers in greeting, fighting down a smile to see his husband so undone, jacket on the couch and shirt sleeves shoved to his elbows. His braces hang in loose loops from either side of his chair.

“A moment, 0013,” Bond begins. Q’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head, closing the door quietly behind himself. “Nevermind, Briony. You were telling me how repulsive you found a prince…”

With a grin, Q drops his bag to the couch, and tosses his coat atop it, listening peaceably to his husband at work. Freelance or not, outside contractor or otherwise, Bond has taken to his new position with aplomb and passion. He guides. He advises, all sides of the assignment. He spends late nights counseling his fellow agents and providing company that frees their handlers to attend to less personal matters. The Q Branch minions joke that 007 has become a Double-Oh Whisperer, and they aren’t far from wrong.

“...no manners,” Briony is saying, when Q listens again. “You would think, with upbringing like his, he would at least have the decency -”

“He has money, darling,” James tells her, turning his chair gently back and forth. “After all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be a giant fucking prick.”

“In want of a wife,” 0013 corrects him with a snort. 

“Oh, is that it?” James replies, flawless on his rebuttal, as always. “I always offered a giant prick in return. Maybe that's where I failed in my seduction.”

James turns to wink at his husband, bringing the end of a pen to his lips to pensively chew as he watches Quinn struggle not to laugh aloud. He smiles wider when he shakes his head and murmurs to him that he loves him. Q wrinkles his nose in an affectionate little squint and steps closer to Bond’s desk.

“Money should bring with it some sense of propriety,” Thorne sighs. “The man’s a pig.”

“Pigs lead the way to truffles.”

“I could use one to find me a bloody drink right now.”

Standing beside him, Q swipes awake the sleeping screen on James’ wall. Practiced movements pull up the locations of both agents. With an arm across his eyes, 009 snores off his jet lag in a small room with bare walls, his narrow bed surrounded by mosquito netting. The satellites map him to the Centro Historico in Cusco, and despite this being no longer his duty, Q takes survey of the agent’s equipment, pleased to see all in order. He’ll meet tomorrow with the first of many in a line suspected of trafficking archaeological artifacts from the Andes, the first thread in the web of a potentially substantial syndicate.

0013, scarcely visible from where she’s propped up the miniature camera used to keep overwatch at night, stands at distance on her room’s terrace. Her suite in the Burj Khalifa is far too high to see Dubai below from this angle, her cigarette smoke swept away by the same stiff wind that shivers her gauzy dress. She slumps forward comfortably with her elbows on the balcony, one finger set to her ear.

“Don’t know why it always seemed so glamorous when you were at it,” she says. “Sleeping with the beautiful and dangerous. I feel like I’m girding myself for getting pawed at during a school dance.”

“In truth that's all there really is to it,” James admits, amused. “One is either girding or pawing. The glamour comes with practice.”

“And patience, evidently,” she sighs, taking a long drag of her cigarette and tossing it over the edge of the balcony.

Q watches the screen a moment more before he feels a tug against his belt loop and looks down. James doesn't even turn to him as he does it, he gently tugs and draws Q near until he steps back, and only then does he pivot his chair to him. With a deliberate reach to touch the mute button on his end, he arches his neck and accepts a kiss given him.

“Hello, darling,” James whispers, nosing against Q’s hand when it sets to his face. “I missed you.”

"It's a nice change to see you working late," Q teases, following his thumb across James' lips with another kiss. "And I get to be the one come to distract you."

"Or to distract me by -"

Before he can finish his innuendo, Q unmutes the comms and grins. A sharp tug pulls him down into Bond's lap and he settles heavy against him, leaning back with James wraps an arm around his middle.

"This is the easy part," James tells Thorne. "Not the most enjoyable, but straight-forward. If he's as unpleasant as you describe, he'll be asleep not a moment after and you'll be able to proceed freely."

"That part, I will enjoy very much," she responds with a laugh, approaching the mirror beside the camera to check her makeup and her equipment. "I'll tell you something, though, 007. I'm going to be hard-pressed to make the injection in his carotid, rather than the dorsal artery along his undoubtedly insubstantial member."

"I wouldn't," Q interjects, eyes closing in a muted wince as he does.

"Well hello, quartermaster," Thorne answers. "Didn't know you were joining us."

"Neither did I."

Bond rests his cheek against his knuckles, elbow on his desk as he regards his husband with enormous amusement. "Q seems to have an interest in the defense of the prince's privates."

"I assure you, I don't," Q says. "It's a paralytic. It would take too long to spread throughout his system from there. The carotid, by contrast, will reach the head and face directly and stop him making any sound. I daresay you'd find quite the opposite were you to direct it towards his other head, instead," he says.

There's a pause.

And Q snorts sudden laughter, delighted with himself.

James turns his head to nose against Q’s cheek, fingers folded together across his flat stomach. He is lovely, and childish, and giddy and beautiful. The fact that he laughs at his own jokes always warms James’ heart. It is utterly charming.

“I suppose I will trust the science this time,” Thorne replies, a curve of a smile in her words. There is a pause as she adjusts her lipstick. “Perhaps inject something more volatile once he's incapacitated.”

“That's the way,” James encourages, parting his lips and taking Q’s earlobe between his teeth to tug, pulling a surprised sound from his husband. “Good girl.”

As Briony begins to check over her devices for the night’s task ahead of her, Q reaches past James to mute the comms again. Arms wrapped up around James’ neck, Q leans heavily back against him and mouths with soft lips and firm nips against the underside of his jaw. He squirms in pleasure as James tightens his arm around his husband’s middle, and Q lets his legs part over Bond’s thigh.

“Will you be terribly long?” Q asks. “That isn’t to say I’m trying to rush you. I’m not, of course I’m not. You should work as long as you need, but -”

“As soon as she’s out the door, it’s back to Q Branch for monitoring.”

“You don’t want to stay and watch?” Q asks, drawing his nose up and down the line of James’ jaw. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spent the night here together.”

James groans softly and spreads his palm over Q’s stomach. It always astounds him that with fingers spread he can cover it entirely with one hand. “We could observe,” he murmurs. “Have another seduction in the background as one of us seduces the other.”

“Just one?”

“Oh, we are both right bastards for loving to play hard to get,” James reminds him. “Although we could see how we tangle as we both try.”

"I'd remind you about the code of conduct," Q begins, laughing softly as James shivers at his tone. "But I'm not certain it applies to outside advisors."

"It bloody well didn't apply to me before, either."

Q's lips close against James' pulse, holding heat between them. "It did," he says. "You just chose to ignore it."

"As if I'm the only guilty party," mutters Bond.

"Not the only. Just the most egregious," Q grins. With a lithe, lazy shift forward, he drags himself from James' chest. The hand against his stomach keeps him put, however, and with a smile across his shoulder, Q simply spreads his legs a little wider, hands placed on James' knee. He tucks his feet together behind Bond's ankle and balances feline on his thigh. "I missed you today. I'd grown accustomed to you puttering about the house, texting me little scenes from your day."

James turns his head in a cat-like nuzzle against the back of Q’s neck, a deliberate drag of his nose against the short hair there, a soft and gentle claiming. He has grown, to Q’s delight and his own chagrin, to be entirely like their felines in his affection.

“Turing found his way to the top of the kitchen cabinets this morning,” James tells him. “Little bugger got stuck and yowled to be taken down.”

“Yowled?” Q asks, alarmed. “Was he hurt?”

“Of course not, he’s just noisy.”

“He must have been so frightened. Did you take him down?”

Bond huffs a breath against Q’s curls. “No, I thought it would be a good lesson to leave him there, so he can sort out how to get unstuck.”

With a breath so sudden it’s as if he was stuck, Q turns - or tries to turn - to face James, eyes wide with alarm. Lips parted in silence, all his admonishments stuck together in his throat, it takes a moment more for him to register his husband’s evident delight. Q squints.

“You’re terrible,” he murmurs. “Poor little Turing.”

James strokes up and down Q’s stomach. He doesn't tell him that he spent the entire time standing beneath the little cat with a towel in case he decided to make a jump for it. He doesn’t tell him that he was worried sick until the tiny thing found the way he had come up and with lithe elegance made his way down again.

“Carried the beast around for hours after, before I had to go to work. Wouldn't let him out of my sight,” James tells Q softly, drawing down his shirt a little and kissing his shoulder. He reaches past him to unmute the comms again. “Blue dress, 0013.”

“Do some work, 007,” comes the amuses reply before the agent moves out of sight to change.

He mutes the comms again and just in time, as Q arches in purring pleasure beneath James’ mouth. His heart quickens at his husband’s words, and his fingernails curl in a soft scrape against his trouser leg.

“I’ve always been weakened by rough men behaving tenderly,” Q confesses, smile tilting crooked as he allows his tie to be loosened, and the first two buttons on his shirt undone. He rests his cheek against his shoulder and bares his neck for Bond, who savors in small kisses the taste of him, collar tugged aside.

“Who knew that all I had to do to win you over was to tote a cat around under my arm?”

“Would’ve been a better start than pulling your sidearm on them.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you? As if they and I haven’t made amends.”

“More that you’ve capitulated to them,” snorts Q. His grin widens a little, though he tries to hide it beneath his hand. “Shall we check on them? I could pull them up on…”

“I’m trying to seduce you,” Bond murmurs. “They disrupt that enough when we’re at home.”

Q laughs, but the sound quiets as he bites his lip, goosebumps tightening his skin when Bond’s lips click against his throat. Q looks to the screen, where 009 sleeps fitfully and 0013 casts long shadows across the floor as she dresses, and then ducks his head to watch Bond’s fingers gather in his shirt. He arches upward against James’ palm, to let him feel tension rivet tight his belly. “Brave James Bond,” he muses. “Hero of MI6, and Savior of Wayward Felines.”

“I feel canonized,” James murmurs, keeping his voice at that pitch just above a whisper that pulls shivers from Q against him. “By my proving myself over and over with cats and kindnesses alike.”

“You’re a shit,” Q tells him warmly, and James hums and slips his fingers beneath the waistline of Quinn’s pants. On the screen, Briony Thorne comes back into view in and stunning backless number. Q swallows. James barely gives her a second glance, so preoccupied with the man in his lap.

He does lean over to flick the button on comms again. “Stunning, darling,” James tells her. “Perfect for hiding a Beretta.”

“You find those often?” She asks, fixing some long diamond earrings by the mirror.

“In the most unusual places,” James tells her, slipping his hand between Q’s legs and softly rubbing there. “I’m confident you will sweep that grotesque man off his feet.”

“Undoubtedly,” she sighs, turning to the camera and bending to look into it fully. She smiles, eyes narrowing and copper hair reflecting what little light the room offers. “You’d better have a good night, 007. I need to live vicariously through someone.”

“Undoubtedly,” James echoes, biting softly against Q’s neck. “I have the perfect specimen in my lap for just that.”

Thorne snorts softly and runs a hand over her face before standing up again. “You two are sickeningly sweet, do you know that?” Bond agrees in tandem with Q’s negation, and Briony rolls her eyes at them from Dubai. “Right. On that nauseatingly sweet note, I’m off.”

“Envy’s not a good look for you, 0013,” Bond smiles.

“I think I look good enough to make up for it.”

Q sighs, tilting a narrow but good-natured glare against his husband. “Thorne,” he says.

“Yes, Q?”

“007 will be here as you need him, and you’ve got Q Branch ready on the other channel. They’d better be, anyway,” he murmurs, before clearing his throat again. “Just click in here if there’s anything he - we - can do for you.”

She pauses with her hand above the camera, a smile flashing brief but wholly genuine. “Much obliged,” she says, tilting the camera’s aim towards the room at large, to run while she’s away should anyone attempt to break in. The recorder will be abandoned, her mission carrying her onward from the prince’s quarters, and run through a coding protocol that will render it a useless bit of metal for the room service that finds it after.

“One more thing before you switch over,” Q says, as she sets her fingers to the bracelet she wears.

“Hm?”

“Not in the genitals,” Q reminds her, smiling as she laughs. “And be careful out there.”

“Always,” she assures them. “Say goodnight to London for me.”

And with the push of her finger, their line goes quiet. Q reaches to switch their receiver over to Q Branch’s channel to listen in, his old habits not so much dying hard as proving entirely immortal. James merely reaches for him before he can, and without so much as a breath of chastisement, he takes his husband’s fingers in his hand, and brings them to his lips.

“To the right personality, the dopamines released after a rush of adrenaline can be as addictive as any man-made drug,” Q observes. He looks from the darkened room in Dubai to Bond, gently pressing fingertips to his lips. “Do you miss it?”

“I do, some days,” James replies honestly, nuzzling against Q’s hand and folding his fingers to kiss his knuckles next. With the other hand he guides Q to sit more comfortably against his lap, legs over both of James’ instead of just one. “I found, towards the end of my career, that the relief that flooded through me when I could hold you again after an assignment was the strongest drug I could possibly experience.”

He drops his hands to run over Q's thighs, sighing warmth against his cheek and jaw, down to his throat, through the fabric of his shirt to his arm as well. Q can feel him semi-hard in his pants already, late at night and holding Q close after a long day for both of them.

“I missed you while on the job more than I miss the job,” James tells him, smiling. “I get enough of a rush, now, making dinner and knowing you will be home before it's done. How domestic is that, hmm? You've tamed me.”

Q’s cheeks warm when he smiles, and ducking his head, he lifts his free hand to press his knuckles against his blush. “A whole new sort of adventure, really. Contending with clever cats and a stroppy spouse.”

“They’re smarter than most of the criminals I came up against, and not nearly so easily dispatched,” laughs Bond, lowering Q’s fingers to kiss his ruddy red cheek instead. “And you far more dangerous than anyone I bedded then.”

“Dangerous!” Q laughs. “Me?”

“Absolutely lethal. All you’ve got to do is walk into a room and I nearly drop dead.”

“Oh, do shut up, 007,” Q grins, freeing his hands to frame James’ cheeks and kiss him soundly.

He writhes and wriggles, pressing upward to deepen their kiss, sinking back to feel James’ cock stiffen against his bottom. As much a sap for flattery as for tenderness, though only from this man, the cause of more joy and strife in his life than anything or anyone else. Tangled tongues distract Bond enough that Q can finally bring one leg over, and straddle James properly. He fits his knobby knees on either side of him, between Bond’s thighs and the arms of his chair, and sets his hands against his chest, their kiss sliding hot together.

James’ hands settle to Q’s ankles, holding gently there as he closes his eyes and loses himself entirely to his husband. Though his own hours are little, in compare, he finds that it exhausts him now more than going out into the field did. He isn’t made for office work. He worries, he cares too much. He marvels at how Q does this every day, hour after hour, and loves him all the more for it.

“You’ve picked up my bad habits of distracting me at work,” James murmurs, delighted by this revelation. He slips his hands under the hems of Q’s trousers and follows the warm cotton of his socks until he hits bare skin.

“You did it often enough,” Q tells him, a soft chastisement but hardly a cruel one. “I suppose I learned because I couldn’t not.”

“Terrible.”

“Says the pot to the kettle.”

“I love you, Quinlan Bond,” James tells him, leaning back to watch him with hooded eyes. “Right beautiful bastard that you are.”

Q tilts his head a little, gaze flitting away, then back, then away again in shy, pleased glances. His smile widens until he sucks his lips between his teeth to quiet it. His glasses slip down his nose as he shakes his head. “I know better than to argue with you.”

“Because you know I’m right.”

“Because you’re a stubborn prat who won’t let it go if I do,” Q grins. He slips a finger beneath the knot of James’ tie and loosens it in a steady pull, bringing himself a little forward as he does. Bond’s stubble rasps against his lips as Q kisses a path along James’ jaw, over his chin, and up the other side again. “I love you, James Bond. I’d never want to be more a bastard to anyone else.”

“There’s a relief,” James laughs, as Q tugs his tie free and sets it to the table behind them. “And I’d rather fluster no one with my stubbornness more than you.”

“Except maybe M.”

“Not at all in the same way,” Bond assures him.

Q kisses up his cheek, to the corner of his eye and to the soft skin just beneath his ear. Here he lingers, breathing close and teasing with parted lips, as button by button he undoes Bond’s shirt. “I should help you christen your office like you helped me break in mine,” he says with a low laugh. “But I’d have to wait until you’re half-asleep, then wake you up with rude demands and a hard cock between your legs.”

“Mmm, if I recall correctly,” James mumbles, “and I am certain I do, you were working at the time. Dressed down and beautifully pliant on your sofa but working nonetheless.”

“Did I say that?”

“Claimed it loudly, and often,” James nods, smiling wider when Q starts to work open the buttons of his shirt. He lets go of Q’s legs and works his hands beneath the hem of his vest next instead. “So, in truth, should you want to christen the office, we are both well enough prepared and equipped to do that right now.”

Q bites his lip and leans back, enough for James to slide his vest from his shoulders. He runs a hand over Bond’s undershirt, fingers curling as soft hair shifts beneath and spreading over a stiffened nipple. For hours Q could touch him, just like this, fully clothed and all, following the familiar form of his body with hands that know it as well as his own.

“I’m not certain that I can lift you against the wall,” Q admits as he blinks back up to James, grinning when his husband laughs. “In fact, I’m reasonably sure I’d hurt one or both of us in the attempt.”

“Like that one time we tried in the shower?”

“James.”

“When you still had the curtain rail around the tub,” James reminds him, grinning. “And held onto it, and nearly brought the house down with us?”

Q closes his eyes and attempts, in vain, not to laugh. When the first snort comes through, James leans in to kiss his throat, to feel his pulse jump from pleasure alone and nothing more. Q laughs wonderfully, he laughs freely and happily, he snorts and he chokes on the sound and he makes little noises throughout as though to speak. He is incredible.

“Aren’t you glad I put up the glass door?”

“Entirely selfless, I’m sure,” Q snorts. “Certainly not so you can watch me shower while you brush your teeth in the morning.”

“An added benefit.”

“Up,” Q says, and before Bond can think about reacting, his body does for him. Spine straight, shoulders slipping back, a subtle adjustment that narrows Q’s eyes in pleasure. “You, infuriating and tempting thing, have made me so distracted I find myself wandering the halls of MI6 at some unconscionable hour…”

“It’s only going on midnight,” James interjects.

“...so that I could find you, and shut you up for a change,” Q finishes, sliding back from Bond’s lap with a sleek and graceful bend. He straightens before him then slouches back, hands against Bond’s desk and bottom perched on the edge. The toe of one shoe comes to rest on James’ chair, between his legs.

“Do you know,” Q grins, blushing until he bites his bottom lip and releases it with a laugh, “you are the most stubborn creature I’ve ever met? A month, a month, Bond that we’ve been working together - you know, a second time, anyway...”

“How many times have you thought about that night to have it bloody memorized?”

“I pulled the footage from security’s records, as I said I would,” Q shrugs, nose wrinkling in delight. “That doesn’t mean I deleted it from my computer.”

James watches him, delighted, and shakes his head. “Voyeur to the core, aren't you, love?” Q reaches to grasp the collar of his undershirt and James swallows, watching him attentively.

“I do enjoy watching,” Q tells him. “It passed the time beautifully when you were away.”

“I helped,” James remarks, biting his lip as the toe of Q's show presses a little closer between his legs.

“You did. Angling your camera just right, always giving me a show. You like to be watched as much as I like watching.”

“Only by you,” James assures him, shouldering off his shirt and letting it fall to the floor atop Q's vest. Q’s gaze alone directs Bond, a quick flick of eyes towards his undershirt, and this too is removed. Bare-chested and beautiful, Q glances to his trousers next, and with a soft sound to swallow down his shiver, Bond loosens his belt and unzips.

Q brings up his other foot to lazily toe off his oxfords, letting them clatter to the floor beneath. “I don’t miss you being in the field,” he says. “There’s nothing that could make me want that again for us. But I’d be dishonest if I said I don’t think fondly of it sometimes. Your exhibitionism, your bravado. Watching you in your element, or what once was, and always with such exceptional skill.”

James lifts his chin a little, smiling. “Our first date was in the field.”

“So to speak,” Q grins. “I remember thinking, what an extraordinary thing...”

“About the rugs?”

“That I could feel closer to you a world apart than I’d ever felt to anyone,” Q says. His smile widens as he returns his socked toes to the edge of James’ seat, sliding his foot upward until his toes splay against the hard ridge between his legs. “No rugs.”

James hums, legs comfortably wide and trousers undone. He sets his hands to the arms of the chair and keeps his eyes on his husband, sleepy and coy and lovely, perched on his desk.

“You will see sense someday,” he murmurs, smiling wider when Q stretches incrementally and presses a little harder between James’ legs.

“Not when we have four cats,” Q says. “And more fur than we can keep up with.”

“Good thing we only have three then,” James laughs. “And one which doesn't shed.”

Q curls his toes and spreads them, rocking his foot forward to rub firm against James’ erection. His smile narrows his eyes, just a little. “You know, we could…”

“We could also not,” Bond smiles. “You know, you only ever mention getting another when we’re being intimate. I’m onto your game, Quinlan.”

“You can’t blame me for trying,” Q laughs. He doesn’t press the point, but he does press a bit harder against Bond’s cock, watching his bulge squeeze against his belly and tent upward again, watching the fabric bunch and smooth. James wraps his hand over Q’s foot and holds it still just long enough to rub himself against it once. Their eyes meet.

“I’m meant to be working,” murmurs Bond, brow raised.

“I’m meant to be distracting you,” Q answers, pleased with himself. “I think we have a clear victor.”

James laughs, breathless and warm, and lifts his eyes to watch Q preening in pleasure on his desk. “So we do,” he agrees. He doesn't move, nor does he move Q. He sits contented and watches him, beautiful and tempting as he is. “And what would the victor like as his prize?”

Bond’s willingness to submit was an unexpected surprise that continues to delight Q beyond measure. Despite his reputation for rebellion and his notorious tendency to be a stubborn shit, James has always sought to serve well those who give him instruction. It stands to reason that he’d be the same in the bedroom, a fact that some who perceive him to be domineering have undoubtedly found off-putting. But for Q, as bossy and demanding as they come, it’s a particular pleasure to see his husband - older, bigger, stronger - find such satisfaction in being told what to do.

Sometimes that means leaping onto a moving train.

Sometimes that means bringing him tea.

Sometimes it’s moments like this, both their cocks aching hard, and James’ eyes hooded in blissful surrender to anything, everything Q wants to do to him.

“You,” Q says with a grin, letting his foot slide from the chair. “Bent over your desk. Lock the door, 007.”

James swallows hard, fingers curling against the arms of the chair before he relaxes them and stands to obey. He gazes at the frosted glass for a moment, the corridor dark beyond, and relishes in the sound of the lock turning decisively in his hand.

Few people have managed to make James submit as he does so willingly and beautifully for Q. Some don't have the tone, or lack the conviction, others hardly understand what genuine submission truly means. But with Q, every command and word and turn of his elegant language is enough to have James at his feet.

It is extraordinary. 

It is delightful.

With a graceful turn, Bond walks back to his desk, his husband still sitting upon it, and raises an eyebrow to further instruction. Q slips to his feet and grasps James by the back of his neck. He sinks against him in a heady kiss, parting James’ lips with his tongue to taste him just for an instant before releasing him once more. A quick movement blackens the screen, and Q turns to seat himself elegantly on the edge of James’ chair.

Bond turns towards his desk with a smile, but no sooner places his hands upon its clutter than Q clicks his tongue. The sound turns James’ next breath to a soft moan.

“Trousers, 007. And pants. Do try and keep up.”

James licks his lips. “Folded?”

“Of course.”

James huffs a laugh and ducks his head. He pulls free his belt and set it aside on the desk. Thumbs hooked into the waist of his trousers glide them down to his ankles, and taking his time to bend slowly, he steps from each leg and folds them neatly. Back arched, James’ peels his pants down his thighs, and folds these in turn.

The pile goes on the floor with the vest and shirts, and so bare - entirely but for his socks and suspenders - the agent sets his hands to the desk and inclines his body over it. James knows the door is locked. He knows that comms are off. He knows that Q will delicately extract any footage that may be monitoring them at present, but all of this awareness does little to cool the rare blush from James’ cheeks. He feels exposed. Vulnerable. Powerless to do anything more than what Q asks.

He couldn’t be happier with how the evening’s gone.

Q takes him in at length, his agent held in sway with words alone. It’s utilitarian, in some ways, to play like this before the actual act - it delays Q’s inevitably swift end, always over too quickly, though never not a sensational experience. It’s also bloody beautiful. Q rests his hands on James’ legs, stroking through the pale hair that grows along them. From his hips to his knees, over taut calves to his suspenders and the expensive socks below, he touches with warm hands and tangible appreciation.

When he reaches the suspenders, Q snaps one of the elastics, grinning when James makes a small sound. He traces back up the insides of his legs as he marks Bond’s muscles with his fingertips, firm despite his constant squinting in the mirror, hard despite how often he complains about getting fat. He’s nothing of the sort, only a little softened, and Q loves this as much as the well-honed musculature that Bond has maintained.

They were never guaranteed a time when they could let themselves go. They were never promised the peace they enjoy now. And to see their new life made manifest in physical form is as exhilarating to Q as anything sexual.

Which of course, isn’t to say that he’s not enjoying the sexual. Bond’s cock bends downward, pressed to the edge of the table. Hanging thick and dark-veined between his legs, Q fans his fingers across James’ shaft and tugs downward, milking him once. His free hand settles to the rosy, flushed curve of Bond’s plush bottom, and squeezes to spread him a little.

“God,” Q sighs, laughing as James shifts a little beneath him. “Look at you.”

James laughs softly. “Please, look your fill.”

He shivers as Q spreads him a little more, his gaze damn near physically felt against James’ skin. It is entirely intoxicating, it always is, to be seen this way. There is such power in silence, in waiting, in merely gazing and seeing and being seen.

Q knows how to manipulate it masterfully.

Slowly, James bends deeper, for no other reason than to feel that stretch of his skin, the gentle tug of muscles as he does. More exposed, more vulnerable, giving himself entirely over to Q's whims. With a shuffle he spreads his legs a little further apart, and turns to look over his shoulder at his husband.

“007,” Q sighs. “I love you terribly.”

He drags his lips softly over the tender, gathered wrinkles of Bond’s opening. Stroking kisses brush and tease, light enough that Q can feel James’ shivers in response. He nuzzles warmly against the inside of his thigh, against his balls. He bends Bond’s cock back a little to lick a line down the underside of it. This is not the rough claiming that James years ago burst into Q’s office to enact, but it is no less possessive.

The kisses deepen as Q returns with dampened lips and quickened breath to James’ ass. He circles his lips and suckles, tongue stroking over hot skin, pressing just inside and then away again. With both hands set to Bond’s bottom, Q buries his face against him and moans low, hips arching already in unconscious thrusting want, heart already pounding in his ears.

With a soft curse, James holds himself still. They are both entirely weak to this, both overcome and overwhelmed and pulled to their limits of pleasure with this.

“God, Quinn,” he sighs, fingers spreading over the desk and curling gently against the wall. He ducks his head and arches his back and parts his lips so Q can hear his sighs and the way his lips click when they part and press together again.

He could be entirely undone by this. He has been. But James also knows his husband well enough now, he knows the games they play and why, he knows that the mercy of being allowed to come just from this is unlikely to be given him, here.

He will wait.

Q relents only to breathe, panting warm breath that cools against Bond’s spit-slick skin. Discreetly wiping dry the corners of his mouth, he nips the curve of James’ ass. He nuzzles the soft skin beneath. He seeks out his cock with clever fingers and parted lips to suckle him from behind, his own length twitching stiff when his husband moans long against his desk.

Thumbnails scratch against the inside of his thighs, not enough to be painful but enough that goosebumps prickle under Q’s hands. He takes him deep enough to nose against his balls, breathing in the heady, musky scent of him, throat click as he swallows around James’ cock. A salty dollop swells and spills down his tongue, another licked away as Q works his tongue against the foreskin and seeks out the slit beneath.

Not once does James lift himself. Not once does he beg for less or more or anything at all. He holds himself steady and receives his pleasure, made manifold by the delight he can feel from Q in providing it.

“Bond,” Q says, as he lets James’ cock come to rest against the front of his desk again.

“Yes, Q?”

“I don’t suppose you keep lubricant in your desk, do you?”

“Do you?” James laughs.

“Yes,” Q says, standing and sliding his hands up to rest against the dimples in James’ back. “But I don’t think gear oil would be especially pleasant. Nevermind. Bond,” he says again.

James arches a little deeper, a ripple of pleasure tightening his body from toes to fingers. “Yes, Q?”

“I’m going to have my way with you.”

James curses, low and deliberately articulated, and tenses his muscles against Q’s hands before relaxing them. He can't think of a sexier thing than Q ravishing him when he's in a mood. And now, with both of them at work, cameras trained on them, only a flimsy door keeping anyone who passes by outside from coming in…

“Get on with it then,” he whispers, though he hardly has the conviction behind his words. He is not in control here, and happily so.

“Steady, 007.”

James groans at the tone, patient and just a little patronizing. Q’s belt clicks as he unfastens it, the scrape of a zipper spilling goosebumps down James’ arms. Fabric whispers against Q’s skin and it all seems so loud with Bond’s nerves as alight as they are, it all seems so bloody naughty when paperwork crumples beneath his tensing fingers. Fingers stroke through his hair and Bond lifts his head with a moan, back arching and stomach pressed flat to the desk.

Q slicks himself with a bit of spit, pants and trousers down only enough to free himself. The soft tweed rubs against James’ bottom as Q aligns himself, fisting his hand gently in James’ hair. Blunt pressure nearly breaches, but Q withholds to revel in James’ coiling, shuddering anticipation beneath him.

“Mind your armament,” Q murmurs. “We wouldn’t want an accidental discharge on your desk, would we?”

“You’re a right cock, Quinlan Bond,” he breathes, his laugh pulling into another moan as Q starts to push into him, deliberately slow.

God it feels good. It feels so bloody good.

And as with any instruction to not do something, James finds his mind fixated entirely on wanting to do it instead. He slips a hand beneath the desk to wrap his fingers around the base of his cock and hold it tight, panting little clouds of breath against the smooth wood beneath his cheek. For as little as Q thinks of his performance, Bond knows better. He can feel the care and affection in Q’s hands, holding him wide but not stretched to the point of pain. He can feel the raw want in every little thrust that fills him inch by bloody inch, restrained so as not to hurt, unyielding all the same.

“More like I’ve got the right cock,” Q murmurs, snorting as he struggles to keep quiet his laughter. Bond curses and earns a sharper jerk of hips for it, Q’s fingernails curving against the swell of his bottom. Kissing up his spine, Q lays against his husband’s back, brow between his shoulder blades and a moan poured out thick and sweet as honey as he buries himself deep. He circles his hand between them, teasing fingertips against James’ hole, spread wide around him.

“I’m not going to last,” James sighs. Every breath, every incremental movement, brings pleasure tight in his belly simply from feeling Q inside him. Against him. Whispering against his back.

“You will,” Q reassures him, “because I asked you to.”

He pushes himself up, and James flat, and with a smack of skin against skin, takes him hard enough to tremor the desk.

James folds one arm and presses his forehead against it, eyes closed tight and teeth bared as he pants his pleasure with every thrust to the table below. Q is an incredible lover. He can send sparks behind James’ eyes with the gentlest touch as with the harshest thrust. He holds James entirely in thrall, and the agent would not have it any other way.

He begs, because he knows Q wants to hear it.

He begs, because his body trembles with the most aching need.

“Christ,” Q gasps, clutching James’ ass with both hands, head bowed as he watches his cock disappear into his agent again and again. They’re making so much noise, between the clap of their bodies together, the rattling desk, their own gasps and moans and aching pleas. They’re making too much noise, and someone could overhear who happens to wander by.

Someone could turn the comms on.

Someone could be watching the security cams.

God, it’s bloody thrilling.

Q’s pulse trembles, fluttering fast beneath his skin. He grasps James’ hair and pulls to lift his head again. His ass raises, too, along with his voice, freed from the confines of his desk. His body clenches hard around Q, pressure and heat squeezing sparks behind Q’s eyes. His breath hitches. He whimpers.

He comes, hard and fast, moaning a curse in pleasure and spite alike.

James clings to the desk so hard he feels his nails scrape it. He relishes the curse behind him, the heat that spills immediately after inside him. It is exhilarating, hot as hell. Nothing is more beautiful to him than Q losing himself to pleasure. 

“God, you're stunning,” James manages, his own breath hitching as he clenches hard around Q and holds his own pleasure at bay.

He hasn't told him he could come, yet.

Q swallows down his apology, lips parting for a trembling sigh instead. Still hard for the moment, he pushes himself up to his toes, hands on James’ ass, and rubs the head of his cock against James’ prostate. Bond’s arm tightens, muscles taut, as he clamps his fingers harder around his cock and groans.

“How long could you last,” Q murmurs, thrusting quick and shallow, “were I to keep touching you just here?”

James makes another sound - this one entirely helpless, pleading, little - and shudders. “As long as you said,” he breathes. His entire body trembles, muscles tense where he pushes up to his toes, back arched to feel Q within him still, just like this.

He will come soon, he can't help it. But hell if he won't try to hold as long as he can.

Because Q told him to.

“Darling, please...”

“You’re astounding,” Q sighs, glancing down to watch his cock slip free. He teases James with a fingertip, circling him through their mess, dipping his finger inside to bend just against his prostate. Bond swallows so hard his throat clicks, forehead pressed to the desk and short, choppy breaths heaving his sides.

“Quinn,” laughs Bond, because he can’t manage any more than that plea. He’s so close that he’s shaking, beyond his control. He’s so close that the moment he so much as loosens a muscle, he’s going to come right on the floor.

With a smile and his finger still inside, Q lowers himself unsteadily to his knees. His free hand curling gently beneath James’ cock, he bends it back just a little, and wraps his mouth around the member throbbing so hard that Q can feel Bond’s pulse against his lips. A quiet hum says all he needs.

James is fairly sure he stops breathing. The relief is almost painful, throbbing through him and tugging every nerve with a tickling electrical pulse. When he does breathe again, it is with a whimper that presses his chest to the desk beneath him.

“Holy shit.” He licks his lips and seeks with his hand to stroke against Q’s hair, his face, smiling when sticky lips press to his fingers. 

“Stay where you are,” Q tells him, grasping James’ legs to help himself up from the floor again. With his clean hand, he tucks himself away, and gathers tissues from the box beside the window. He daubs his lips first, then wipes his finger, and presses a clean tissue to James’ backside, smiling when Bond laughs, rueful.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I did. I am,” Q agrees. “Don’t dress yet. I’m going to go wash up and -”

“And leave me here?” Bond asks, watching Q wide-eyed as he stops beside the door. “Like this? Quinn -”

“Yes, 007?”

His tone is enough. James purses his lips together, eyes narrowed but with the hint of a smile in them. “Do hurry, will you?”

Q grins at him, and quickly exits. He’s gone only a few minutes, those still here too occupied with the ongoing missions to be wandering this part of the building at this time of night. He needn’t rush, really, but he does for Bond’s sake.

And because returning to see him still bent and bare, hair mussed and cheeks ruddy, freshly fucked and drowsy, is beyond measure.

“You can stand,” Q tells him, locking the door behind. He gathers James’ clothes from the floor and sets them to his desk to take him in for a moment more.

James moves slowly, allowing his back to straighten properly and his muscles to ease. He sees his reflection in the screens, flushed and bare and beautiful, with Q standing just behind. James smiles, eyes warming at seeing him there. He turns only when Q tells him to.

But he kisses him without permission.

“I thought I was the exhibitionist,” he murmurs, nosing against Q’s cheek.

“You are,” Q assures him. “You stayed put and bared for anyone to walk in on and see.”

“Because you asked me to.”

“And you did it,” Q grins. “My beautiful, terrible man.”

“Yours entirely,” James agrees.

Q hums his pleasure, a soft little sound not unlike their cats’ happy trills. He strokes warm fingers through James’ hair, and runs both hands down his cheeks. He follows the strong convex curve of his shoulders down to his arms, and over across his chest through the pale, greying hair that dusts it. At the hollow of his throat, Q kisses him, and reaches for James’ pants.

His eyes flash blue as he looks upward, lowering to his knees so Bond can step into them. Q sets them to rest low on his hips, as he likes, and then with just as much care dresses him again in his trousers. Slender fingers curl against James’ legs as Q brings them up to his waist, fastening them and laying kisses against his thighs as he does. It’s silly, perhaps. Unnecessary. But there is a gratitude to what he does, unspoken because it needn’t be.

James stayed put. Stayed hard. Remained bare.

Simply because Q asked it of him.

The undershirt next, carefully folded up against Q’s wrists before he works it over James’ head and soothes it down over his body, smiling when sweat sticks it down between his shoulders and down the middle of his stomach. Another kiss to his chest, just above where the shirt falls, before Q is gently tilted up to meet James’ lips instead.

“Thank you,” James tells him, and with a smile, lets Q go. He stays only a moment, to rub his face against James’ chest, before he steps back and takes up his button-down, and helps James work his arms through it. “By the time you finish, I’ll be ready to go again,” James murmurs.

“An endless cycle of dressing and undressing,” Q considers. “I can’t say I mind ending up as Sisyphus if this is how it will be.”

Q tilts into James’ gentle grip when he folds his fingers into his curls. His lips part for him, eyes closed, allowing himself to be moved and kissed however Bond prefers. Soft little sounds fill his sighs, as button by button he restores James to himself. Q catches the braces that hang from his trousers, gliding them over James’ shoulders and sliding fingers beneath his collar. He lifts it, and loops his tie around, laughing as he’s kissed while trying to knot it.

“Distraction,” he murmurs.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Bond responds, smiling against Q’s cheek when he snorts, grinning.

“Full Windsor?”

“Just leave it off, no one’s going to see it.”

Q squints at him, sidelong, and continues tying it despite. He’s kissed again, on the cheek. Once more on the brow when he tries to duck his head to see what he’s doing. Against his temple, head turned aside, and Q laughs, helpless. “Just give me a bloody moment, Bond.”

“No,” comes the predictable reply, more kisses following it as James catches Q’s chin again and holds him still. As soon as Q finishes with James’ tie, the agent artfully slips it from his neck to Q’s and, winking, pulls it tight.

“It’s on backward.”

“So it is.”

“Will you let me fix it?”

 

“Certainly not.”

“James,” Q sighs and bites his lip as James ducks down to gather Q’s vest, work it up over his wrists and tug it down over Q’s head. It covers most of the backward tie, but not all of it, and James can see the discomfort that little distortion of normalcy brings up in his husband. Without a word, he reaches to take the tie off Q, put it back on him the right way and tuck it into his vest.

“Ravishing,” he assures him.

“I’m wearing two ties,” Q laughs.

“Charming.”

“It’s absurd.”

“Simply lovely,” Bond murmurs, and as they kiss, Q works his own tie from underneath and returns James’ favor, sliding it over his head with only a laugh parting their lips so he can pass it over. Q secures it neatly, smoothes it flat, and keeps his hands pressed to James’ chest as he rests his weight against him.

“There we are,” he says. “Each noosed by the other.”

“Leashed,” James corrects, and watches Q’s nose wrinkle as he laughs.

“All the better.”

“Dinner?”

“Lovely.”

“The Savoy?”

“Closed.”

“Bugger,” James smiles, hardly put off by the revelation. “Japanese, then.”

“Fusion?”

“Traditional.”

“Perfect.”

James takes a step forward, gently pushing Q back, so he can reach his jacket and slide into it. His shoes are by the couch, and all he need do is step into them.

“Car or the tube?”

Q rests his bottom against Bond’s desk, bending to slide back into his oxfords. “Do you have the car?”

“I didn’t walk to work this morning.”

“And God forbid James Bond use public transportation,” snorts Q, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile. “Car, then. There shouldn’t be much traffic anyway.” He straightens with a stretch, physically sated and a little sleepy. “Did you want to check in on 0013 before we go?”

“She’s a big girl,” James says, shrugging into his coat. “And she can get me directly if she needs. M’s got me outfitted to the bloody gills.”

He tosses Q’s coat to him, and with only a slight fumble, the quartermaster catches it and toggles it closed. He takes his computer bag from Bond when the agent holds it up for him, and settling it to his shoulder, leans up to kiss him softly.

“007,” he smiles.

“Yes, Q?”

“I’m glad you’re back.”


End file.
